


The Whisper of Feathers

by Anonymous



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ableism, Autistic Character, Gen, Inspired by The Accidental Warlord and His Pack Series - inexplicifics, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:16:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27584638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: On paper, Eoin’s story was unremarkable for a Witcher. In reality, he couldn't even perform their most basic of functions. Will he be able to find a place for himself among the White Wolf's troops? Or will he be devoured by his own inadequacies?(Set in the Accidental Warlord and His Pack universe by inexplicifics)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 153





	1. Strung

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Oh, Be For Me The Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26454292) by [inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics). 



On paper, Eoin’s story was unremarkable for a Witcher. Orphaned young, found suitable for training. Chosen by Stefan for the Crane School. Passed the Grasses, the Dreams, the Mountain. Earned his medallion. One of the White Wolf’s troops, sworn to his service and his cause. Indistinguishable from his brothers.

If only it were so. If only he lived in that simple paper world, if only he had such standard description. If only he could fit into his expectations with such ease. But Eoin lived in a harsher, crueler reality. There’s something wrong with him, something no mage nor healer can fix. 

It was an affliction of the mind and body both, and he had known about it always, carried it from his first day in Kaer Morhen. In his own mind, he referred to it as ‘strung’, for nothing else would suit quite so well. As a trainee, Eoin had the keenest senses of the class. Could never be snuck up on, not even by Cats-to-be. Had an accuracy with a bow to match the trainers, Witchers three and four and six times his age. Knew the steeping time of any potion put before him, by the subtlest of differences.

It was not always a boon. When multiple voices rang out at once, he could not distinguish them. If the environment changed swiftly, he would be the last to adjust. He slept horribly, in fits a few hours deep, for there was no equivalent to the silencing spell in the rooms of full Witchers among the trainees’ quarters, and he heard every breath of his brothers, every shuffle and quiet curse. Every plink of the sand in the hourglass, one by one. 

Eoin screamed when he was strapped to the table for the Trail of the Grasses, as all Witchers do, the pain of being stripped of humanity, unmade and remade anew. Yet when he was released, numbed to the core, he wept tears of joy for the break he would never again know. 

There were other peculiarities by his being strung. He could not be still, not wholly, else his entire self would fray and fracture. He learned to keep a bit of twine around his wrist, twist it into patterns when he is not being observed. When he must be seen as immobile, he would pull the twine taught enough to bruise, once to bleed, but he hated the texture of it on his fingers after. 

Thankfully, as long as he was doing a task of use, constant movement was rarely outright prohibited. Eoin would mend tunics, would maintain bows and whet swords, would run and swim and spar, anything but to do nothing. 

That time which he was most at peace when in studies. He would twist himself at the oddest of angles, a pretzel of limbs, and read for hours upon hours. Once he startled a chambermaid by hanging from a beam by his ankles, wondering how long he could read upside-down before feeling ill. (It was about four hours, but only because his feet would start to go numb.)

Experiments were even better, because they were never the purely observational kind. He improved the reload time and range of bows, he calculated the best compositions for explosives, he weaved the strongest and sturdiest rope is the keep. 

Eoin enjoyed what pleasures he could find, for his condition was an unacceptable weakness, for a Witcher, and he would die in his first year on the Path proper. Would have died earlier if not for the fortune of the age he was living in. 

His first patrol started in a similar enough way to the training. No monsters of great power, drowners and bloedzuigers, imps who burned easy under his Igni. He started to hope that perhaps, if he was lucky, he might live to see another decade. Then the bruxae came, dozens of overlapping screams, the smell of blood and death, and all but an ambush. It was too much, too fast, and all of his tools and tricks abandoned him.

The taut bow string of his psyche finally snapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have returned with another garbage oc and an exploration of medieval disability


	2. Caught

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: ableism (including alluded to euthanasia)

“Lord Eskel?” A soft voice floated across the room, like a paper boat on a lake. Oliwia, his assistant, bless the gods for that. She’s mostly gotten into the habit of not referring to him by title, but it creeped in on occasion, especially when she was putting a query before him. “Someone just shot an arrow into the wall with a message attached. I presume it’s for you.” she said, placing said arrow on his desk tentatively. He’s surprised that there’s no real fear in her scent, barely a hint of shock. Apparently she’s quick to adapt to all the oddities Kaer Morhen will throw. Maybe he had been working too long, to not even have noticed. 

“Thanks. Damned Cranes can’t help but be dramatic.” he grumbled, unfolding the parchment. It’s from the head loon himself, Stefan, seeking a meeting as soon as was convenient. When he looked out the window, he could catch the far off glint of his crossbow, and whistled an affirmative. “I’ll be out for a while. Hold down the fort?” Eskel couldn’t leave this to wait. He knew it couldn’t be an active emergency, but knowing Cranes....something could be on fire right now, or collapsed to rubble. Or both. 

“I will do so to the best of my ability, Eskel.” she said, and closed the window as he left. Smart call on her part. There was acceptance and then there was encouragement. 

He met Stefan in one of the lower halls, and he blinked at the almost morose expression on his face. He was generally a Witcher of great cheer, fond of a drink and quick to laugh. At the moment, Eskel could see the age on him, the centuries of experience. 

“Eskel.” he said, a weak version of his usual smile valiantly attempting to make itself home, with little success. 

“Stefan. Something’s wrong. What is it?”

“Straight to the point, I admire it.” he said, and sighed. “The latest patrol has come back early, the one with the new Witchers.”

“They run into trouble they couldn’t handle?” Eskel thought of all the beasts that were too difficult for a four Witchers, even newly minted ones, and didn’t like what came up. But then, surely they would have come straight to him. Or to the White Wolf himself. 

“Of a sort. One of my fledglings was there, Eoin. Do you know him?”

“Vaguely. He’s mostly been on the wall. The spindly one with the blonde hair, bit twitchy?”

“The very same. At first, nothing was amiss, and then all at once, he wasn’t there. Completely shut down in the middle of a fight! None of the others have any idea what happened to him. _I_ don’t know what’s happened to him!” he snapped, starting to pace back and forth, driven to movement. “He was a promising trainee. Smart, good with a bow, evasive. Not exceptional, really, but there was no question he’d turn out a fine Witcher.” 

“I spoke to him when he returned. He wasn’t chatty, but I was able to gather this was not a one-off anomaly. There are monsters he _can not_ fight. He’s far from useless, but I can’t send him out on the Path if he’s unstable. Even in a group, he’ll end up a burden. I can’t even blame the new training for making him soft, he was all but done by then. I don’t know what to do. He’s one of mine and I’ve failed him somehow!” he said, coming to halt. He bit his lip and shut his eyes tightly, took a deep, shuddering breath. 

“Stefan, you can’t blame yourself for this. It wasn’t something you could anticipate.”

“Perhaps not. But I wonder. Would it have been more of a mercy if he had died in that fight?”

“You’re not suggesting -“ Eskel prodded, mildly horrified.

“No. He’s survived, and we’ll take care of him. We don’t have to resort to such monstrous solutions these days. I’m just at a loss for what’s to be done with him.”

“I’ll discuss it with Geralt. We’ll figure something out. You’ve said it yourself, he has skills. If nothing else, he has time. He’s a Witcher.”

“Is he? A Witcher who can’t fight monsters. Is that any Witcher at all?” he asked, not with derision or judgement, but a deep sorrow. Like a mother bird who spent so very long raising a chick only to realize it was a cuckoo, an imposter, and one of her own had been shattered on the ground below. 

Eskel didn’t answer, because truly, he didn’t know either. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the saddest thing is there are people still like this in 2020. including the death wishes. neurotypicals are fucking nightmares 


	3. Counsel

Eoin spent the days of the trip back to Kaer Morhen in a fuzz. He barely spoke, ate, or perceived anything except that which was directly in front of him. It had been years since he allowed himself to dwell here, it was dangerous. That mattered little now. He would be banished, killed outright, or some other fitting punishment for this failure to fulfill his duty. He had no desire to consider the contours of it.

When they arrived, some of his sense returned to him, if only for the danger that would soon come. He heard every whispered word, could smell their concern and worry. It hurt more than hatred would, salt in the wound. He didn’t deserve such consideration. Sympathy. He had no particular closeness to any of them, as a lover, a friend, not even among his brothers was he especially counted. It was better that way, he’d always thought. Now, he wished he had someone to talk to, someone to stand in his corner. 

Instead Eoin curled himself into his bed and waited for judgement. 

Stefan was the first to come, asked him what happened. Words still seemed to stick to his throat, but he answered as best he could, made no attempt at deception nor denial. The notch on his leader’s brow felt like an arrow aimed directly at his chest. He didn’t cry when he left, but his body shook hard enough to rattle the frame. 

He fell into a fitful sleep, and when he woke there was bread and light soup on the table beside him, magic warm. He ate it gratefully, this might be the last hot meal he got in a long while, and sat cross-legged on the floor to mediate. 

Eoin was a master of meditation beyond all of his peers, had done far more of it than he ever attempted sleep. It was extremely useful for keeping himself present and centered. With each careful breath, his senses clicked back online, a calm settled over him. A blanket over his fear, anxiety, self-loathing, suffocating all the feelings in his scent. They weren’t gone, he could pick them back open like a scab, let them bleed, but they were secondary.

It was fortunate that he partook, considering the note on the tray calling him to the White Wolf’s office. 

Three of the big five were present. Geralt, Eskel, Jaskier. These were the judges who would decide his fate. 

“White Wolf.” he intoned, in habit more than an attempt at reverence.

“Eoin of the Crane School. I have a task for you.” came his low rumble, which was. Not at all what he was expecting. 

“A task?”

“Hm. Jaskier, you explain.” he delegated, and the bard smiled. He was as honey bread and lust sweet as ever, so saccharine it stuck to his tongue. It was cloying and strong, overwhelming to the palate. He didn’t understand how the other Witchers could stand it, how Eskel and the White Wolf seemed to lean into the sweetness, or chuckle at the simmer of ever-present lust. Eion always felt on the edge of choking on it. 

“Very well, my wolf. We’ve discussed your situation. Your duties are Kaer Morhen will remain the same as they were before, seeing as you’ve had no trouble there.” He clenched his jaw to keep it from dropping. “But it would be a waste to keep you here always, considering your skills. Thankfully, there’s a need you in particular can fulfill. You’re going to be sent to the Redanian court as a scribe.”

“A Witcher scribe?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. He'd admit a lack of direct knowledge about any nation outside the insular kingdom Geralt had crafted, but still he'd read of them, heard testimonies from those who had ventured out. He knew enough of their history. There would be no welcome for him in Redania, especially in Tretegor, the heart of unconquered Redania. But Jaskier, for all his fool and fancy, his dancing and eternal love, for all his pretended to be harmless and lovely. He was arrow-sharp.

“Yennifer has an amulet to disguise your eyes, and you don’t have such an obvious amount of scars to give it away otherwise. I say scribe, that’s your cover. You will have to keep a good hand, but Eskel says you have that covered.” He didn’t know that Eskel knew much of anything about him, besides name and general disposition. He certainly had never interacted with him solo. Perhaps these were just the details the right hand of the Warlord ought to know. 

"We think it likely Redania isn’t keeping to the treaty. But there's nothing concrete to go on, and everyone who does have evidence will be seen as...biased, under the circumstances. Redania itself wouldn't be particularly difficult to handle, but with its position and how recently the invasion of Temeria was, it might come off as a provocation to Cintra, and going up against Calanthe in war is the action of a madman. However, if we had such sufficient evidence as to appease her concerns, it would make the progression much smoother." Jaskier explained, but though his words were aplenty he had said very little. 

"What do you want me to actually do?" he asked, because he couldn't gather from insinuation. Eoin needed orders, he needed instructions, he needed a purpose. 

"Find out how they're breaking the treaty. Keep your cover. Don't get killed." Eskel summed up, which was a lot more helpful. But it didn't change the fact that he couldn't find any sense in this idea.

"You said you wanted me in particular. Why? I don't know anything about Redania, about court or treaties. I'm _younger_ than you, Jaskier. What's the point of sending me?" he asked, vulnerability in his words, a fragile desperation for understanding. It wasn't because they wanted him gone, this was clearly important. Why in the name of all that was good and holy would they trust him with such a responsibility? Especially right after he failed the one he was trained for his whole life.

" _Because_ you're young and inexperienced. You don't have biases or preconceptions to lead you astray. You're smart, observant, and curious. You like to solve problems. The role you're playing is one of need and little notice, and you don't have an ego to trip over." He listed off his reasons, one at a time, slowly and methodically. 

"Alright. When do you want me to leave?" Eoin said, ready to accept this strange new line of work he had been placed upon. To execute it to the best of his ability. For he had been given far more than mercy, this was absolution. A chance to remake himself.

"About a month. Need to send word, give you enough etiquette training so you don't end up mortally offending anyone." Eskel said.

"Not that the nobles of Redania haven't perhaps earned such offense." Jaskier half-sung, and there was a streak of viciousness in the bard for his place of origin that was impossible to miss. "But you're supposed to be part of our diplomatic plan. Plan A."

"Plan A." The White Wolf agreed, though he didn't seem all that enthused for it. Probably thought the act of throwing Jaskier to them was reason enough to conquer the rest of the country. Eoin didn't blame him the sentiment. His scent may be awful to endure, but the man himself was beloved with reason. He liked the song about the Crane school quite a bit. Not like the Cats' song, all high notes, screechy. 

"Should enjoy the rest of your day off, Eoin. You're going to be busy from tomorrow on. Morning training, afternoon lessons." Eskel informed him, and he nodded and walked out.

He didn't go back to his quarters, or to the hot springs as he probably should, but straight to the library. He knew there was a copy of Jaskier's treaty in there, and he was going to examine every inch of it. The general outline was simple, because Geralt didn't keep his political policy a secret. But if there was something Eoin did understand, it was how details could make a system far more complicated than was preferable. It was true of aerodynamics. Surely statecraft had similar issues.

With each line, the stroke of his quill across parchment, something like happiness sung through his nerves, and peace settled on his heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jaskier: constantly happy and in love  
> eoin: please don't do that around me


	4. Aleksander

To say Aleksander Jonnas Dziedzic, Viscount de Olsztine had lived a sheltered life was something of an understatement. Having lost his wife to the wasting disease, two of his sons to combat, and his eldest daughter to childbirth, the Count de Olsztine was extremely protective of his youngest son. He wasn’t permitted to venture beyond the nearest village as a child, was never sent to Oxenfurt despite the fleetness of his mind, even arrived at court a full year after the usual age for such things. 

Aleksander was well aware of his chains, but very rarely pulled them close to taut. He was resourceful, in his way, made friends among the servants and a curriculum of every book he could acquire. In court, he stuck to Piotr and Dawid, made himself a niche between their confidence and charisma. He was not so captivating as either, but he had an easy presence that meant he rarely spent time in solitude. He made a garden in his prison, seed by seed, until you could hardly see the stone for the flowers. 

Assuredly, he still looked through the metaphorical bars. Longed for the excitement of the romance novels that he inevitably drifted back to, brave knights and thrilling adventures, the sights of the world that were perfect to be captured in paint. For the moment, he made small masterpieces of his limited surroundings: climbing ivy on the walls, a cat lounging in afternoon sunlight between the library’s stacks, the stark beauty of Piotr when he laughed, head tilted back and eyes crinkled the way good bread cracks. 

The arrival of a new scribe in Tretegor would only have been of interest of those who required one, were it not for whence he came. A native of Ard Carraigh, he’d been briefly acquired by one of the Witcher schools, and had been sent along by the Consort himself as a favor and a gift to King Vizima, since they no longer had use for him. There was some speculation he was a type of weregild, since the Lady Oliwia had fled into the jaws of the Wolf, and they had no equivalent noble to spare. Certainly they could not send a Witcher, given their predilection for violence and bloodshed. 

Aleksander cared little for the political implications. His own status was set, not high-ranking but stable, and he would be married as soon as a suitable dowry-haver was found, to enrich the estate. It might have been Oliwia herself, in another life. It might have made a decent marriage, they’d kissed a few times, and he could spend hours talking with her. Privately, he wished her well for escaping Lord Velen’s clutches. 

What peaked his curiosity was the far flung nature of him, this resident of the North, one of the few people to spend time within the walls of Kaer Morhen without strict allegiance to the Wolf. The stories he could tell, if only Aleksander could get him hands on him! When the inquired the possibility with his father, he lit up like a candle. 

“Good thinking, my boy. He’s not likely to to exit his shell among the greater lords, sensible enough to keep from retribution. But he might relax with a fool like you. I’ll put the idea to the Duke de Roggeven, certainly he bears a grudge against those savages. But what official use do you have for a scribe? It’s not like you have far-flung acquaintances.”

“There’s Livi, Father. Oliwia.” he corrected quickly. “We were friends before she...left. I’m anxious to hear what’s happened of her.” he said, quite truthfully. He had no worry it was ill, given Milena’s correspondence, and Jaskier’s assurance of a few years ago of the nobility of the Wolf. But it was all so sudden, he’d never gotten a chance to say goodbye to her. 

“Oh the star-crossed lovers angle, that’s perfect. Make sure to emphasize the depth of your concern. Nothing opens hearts quicker than a tragedy.” His father proclaimed, clearly pleased with the fiction he’d invented. Aleksander knew better than to break the illusion. 

That night, he could hardly sleep for the excitement of it, reread one of the more romantic novelizations of the Ballad of the Dread Pirate and His Bride - the bawdy ones didn’t have nearly as good prose. 

‘Dandelion cursed the moon, for it was only with her parting could she see her love once more.’ He’d never quite gotten that line before, still didn’t in full of course, he’d no romantic longing to accompany it, but for the first time in his life, the easy flow of his days felt far too slow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to the google algorithm wondering why i, an american, was poking around poland on google maps


	5. Journey

There was a misconception among humans, one of many, that Witchers were brutes, all muscle and no mind. In reality, they learned a hell of a lot. Trainees were taught the basics of history, geography, and math, and they were experts when it came to potions and the characteristics of monsters. What Witchers were not was academic. They were taught but not really schooled. Even Cranes, who put a lot more effort into this sort of thing, didn’t have a curriculum as such. They did whatever research was necessary to solve their problems, and they were much more likely to field test than explore an idea on paper. 

The point being, Eoin’s training in the art of espionage was a far cry from anything he’d done before. Everything Eskel told him, about hierarchy, propriety, the ritual of noble interaction, it wasn’t exactly sensible, but there was an internal logic to it. He just couldn’t pay attention to his lecturing long enough to really lock it in. Note-taking only required a fraction of his energy, and his body took the rest into looping fidgets until a sharp look had him suppressing all motion. 

Three days in, it was Jaskier who came to the lesson instead, and he didn’t lecture. Or at least, he didn’t expect Eoin to merely passively listen as he explained things. Instead the bard presented him problems, questions, and had him use his knowledge to find a conclusion. It was a hell of a lot more engaging, but it didn’t stop the ever-present need for movement entirely. When he confessed this unfortunate flaw to Jaskier, he considered it for a long moment. 

“What if we put embroidery on the edge of your tunics? You could trace the patterns with your free hand, out of sight. I’ve also heard tell of specialty puzzle boxes you can solve one handed, but we don’t have time to get that commissioned.” he said, almost apologetically. Eoin just nodded agreement, couldn’t work words for the way his jaw was locked. 

Things went a lot more smoothly in his education when it no longer felt like a trap. Eskel was still his primary instructor, but he left pauses in his lectures for questions, and gave him some of the gnarliest knots he’d ever encountered to untangle as he listened. At the week’s ends, Jaskier would come and bombard him with open-ended scenarios, straining him to the edge of his expertise. By the end of the month, he had such speed and confidence in his replies that Jaskier urged him to hold back a little, he was meant to be from the hills, after all. 

“I think you’re ready to go, Eoin Czajka.” The bard proclaimed, and it was strange to hear himself with a family name, even a fake one. There hadn’t been any other Eoins around for nearly a century now. Even if there were, the clarification of Crane was a suitable identifier. “Any last words?”

“If I’m killed, that’s a breach of the non-aggression pact. There’s no exception for espionage laid out. But I will endeavor to find a stronger claim.” he said, voice clear and true and knowing. He’d probably the foremost expert on the Redanian treaty that wasn’t Jaskier himself. 

“Endeavor to come back in one piece, Crane.” Eskel said gruffly. He had a suspicion that his words were not just because of the trouble making his replacement would be, but that he actually had some measure of fondness for Eoin. It was nice, feeling like he mattered to someone. 

“To your pleasure, Lord Eskel.” he said, his expression neutral but a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“Brat.” he scoffed, and he was sent on his way. 

The journey to Tretegor was remarkably uneventful. After being trained and told in no uncertain terms that there would be little kindness for him on the Path, that even the most forgiving of humans would be wary of him, the lack of attention was jarring in and of itself. Without the twin swords, his crossbow, the medallion on his throat or even the slits of his cat eyes, hidden behind the glamour of the amulet, he was just another traveler. He didn’t earn extra coin by picking off bloodzuigers or drowners, but by repainting the bar’s sign in curling calligraphy and transcribing besotted, partially-intoxicated love letters intended for village beauties. 

Even once he crossed into unconquered Redania, where the burr of his Northern accent was noted upon, he never smelled anything more sour than mild apprehension, the sort of vague cultural distaste for someone so close to the Warlord’s seat of power. If only they knew he’d been in his company. He wasn’t nearly so terrifying when seen utterly besotted. 

The capital was lovely in the way wealth made everything lovely, bigger and grander and more ostentatious. Towering buildings and bustling markets, specificity and quality to the merchant’s trades. Eoin picked up some colored inks, green and red and a vial of precious purple, in case he was tasked with any documents worthy of illumination. There was also a wonderfully accommodating chemist with Zakarrian salts and lunar caustic on hand, seemingly unaware of the explosive potential he tucked into his bag. Just because he couldn’t travel with the volatile materials didn’t mean he couldn’t craft them once he was here. Just as a precaution, last resort. He was still a Crane under the disguise. 

He was greeted at court civilly enough, though the scent of deception undercut the sincerity. Eoin was fairly certain he was going to have to get used to that, and to parse the degrees of dishonesty, for there would never be something so plain as the truth. The king had no use for him, but some of the dukes did. Nothing sensitive at the moment, he hadn’t earned their trust with his discretion, but there was no complaint made of his quality, and his sharp hearing meant he was quickly getting a picture of the internal structure of court. Who liked whom and what unofficial alliances there were, the nasty little spider’s web that Jaskier had spoken of. Useful later, for what he could leverage. 

It was only a week into his tenure that he was carefully and specifically requested for a personal matter. Excitement sung through him, even though the indelicacies of a viscount were extremely unlikely to prove useful in his eventual goal, the recommendation of his services to those in similar strife might. 

At the very least, it would be something not grain related to take notes on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jaskier supports accommodations for ND students like the absolute king he is. pls be kind to me, next semester in college


End file.
